


Good Things Come

by herbailiwick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Babies, Gen, M/M, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 04:29:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For cumberbatchaddictsanonymous, who prompted parent Johncroft.</p><p>Sherlock probably would have solved the case. But Sherlock isn't there at the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Things Come

John Watson has felt lost before. He's been through an alcoholic household, misguided relationships, periods of rebellion with no cause, enabling a sister, med school, a war, assisting the greatest detective mind in existence, melding his life with said detective, nearly being blown up, and watching his detective commit suicide.

He feels very lost right now as well, the wind blowing against him a bit in the grey, dry day, mockingly playing with the ends of the desolated paper bag hanging limply from his fingers in defeat.

He hears a piteous cry and glances down at the unnamed baby in the pram, notes her discomfort. He should get her back inside already. She's probably cold. He's a bit cold too, actually. She doesn't have a proper blanket around her, only towels. Just one more thing they've mislooked.

One hand on the pram to keep it stable, he crouches down to pick up the groceries with intent, wincing as the cries increase in volume.

Lost is a very good way to describe what he's feeling.

***

It starts, as do many of the ridiculous situations he finds himself in, with a phone call from Harry.

"It's not a big deal," she says. "I'm sure she'll come back for it."

Right. John already doesn't like the tone. He paces a bit, reminded once again of the small size of his new flat, which he almost feels trapped in at times. "This was a one-night stand," he says knowingly. "You've got no information, not even her mobile." This is so very Harry.

"Didn't even get _that_ far, mate. She needed a place to stay for the night, and, baby and all, I thought...." He can hear the same old desperate, impulsive Harry in her tone. "Maybe she's getting, er. Baby...things?"

John scoffs. "How long's it been since she left, then?" he asks.

"Five hours, give or take?"

"That's quite the head start."

"Hush," Harry says, the amusement in her tone irritating John.

John is silent for a moment, not wanting to lash out at Harry. He wants her to take at least this, the fact there is a living, breathing person depending on her right now, seriously, but she always insists life is just a laugh. And when Harry finally gets serious, she gets to drinking. Family tradition, and all. It's just her _way_.

John hears the baby start to cry, and he tenses. Harry doesn't say anything. He can feel their silence.

"Harry?"

"I'll take care of it," she says softly.

John doesn't think she will.

"Is there some sort of a nappy bag?" John asks warily.

"Big, ugly purse thing? Yeah, check."

"Does the baby need a changing?"

There's a pause. "Yeah, that's awful!" she exclaims. "I'll...just figure this out then, shall I?"

John sighs. "I'll be right over. Let me get dressed."

"Aww, John. That's sweet really, but I'm a woman, right, and these things are supposed to be...natural for us."

"Well, they aren't, not for everyone," he bites out. Harry goes quiet again. "Look." He runs a hand over his face. "I'm coming over. If she starts crying again, it'll probably be less frustrating with two adults around."

Harry sighs in relief. "If you insist," she laughs.

"You're an idiot," John says tiredly.

***

"Like...youngish looking, Middle-Eastern I'd guess, dark eyes and hair. Long hair, with one of those angled fringes? White hoodie, green sort of worn-looking silky top. Jeans with a hole at the knee. Beaten-up white trainers. That's all I remember."

"How youngish?" John asks.

"Uh. Hm. Early twenties? Could have been younger, actually, but she acted fairly mature."

"Apparently your definition of mature could use work." John eyes the baby warily. She's quiet for now, but no telling when she'll want something again. Harry's inexpert changing had led to the little girl's onesie being ruined. They'd rinsed it and would need to launder it soon. They had one more in the nappy bag.

"She could just need a break," Harry says. "It's only been, what, ten hours? Babies are hard. And we can always go to the police, can't we?"

"We can. It might not be easy to track her, though." John has a strange mental image of the baby's mum wiping her prints off of the baby and the nappy bag.

"It's too bad about Sherlock," Harry sighs. She doesn't mean anything by it, but John's throat tightens.

Sherlock would have this one solved. He'd examine the contents of the bag and he'd go to the pub Harry'd picked the mother up at and he'd see all sorts of things John has no hope of noticing. Sherlock would laugh at John and would impress and intrigue Harry and he'd milk her endless praise for all it was worth.

The baby would be back with its mum. Sherlock would be back with John, celebrating at the flat they'd both still belong in.

The baby makes a little noise, and John looks down at her. She returns his gaze at half focus. He offers his finger tentatively. She clutches at it. They stare for a long moment, like she's figuring him out.

She frowns and starts to cry, looking so helpless. John shifts her light weight into his hands and pulls her close to him, settling her into his arms. "You've really done it this time, Harry," he says.

Harry swallows.

***

"This is insane. We're insane," John comments as Harry walks through the aisles, flitting, pacing, moaning at John to keep up.

"New parents?" comments a woman who could be through the aisle by now if Harry would stop blocking her way without realizing. The woman seems content to admire the baby for a moment, though.

"You could say that," John supposes. 

"I just became a grandmother myself," the woman tells John with pride. "She's beautiful."

"Thank you," John replies. He looks at the baby again. "She is, isn't she?"

Harry comes over to John's side, nods to the woman, who starts to head for the end of the aisle.

"Wait!" John calls. The woman pauses. "Er, do you have any tips?" asks John. "We sort of...we don't have any parents to lean on."

"That's a shame," the woman says, touched. "Sure. I've got a few minutes. What's her name?" the woman asks with a smile.

"We've nearly decided," Harry says brightly. "Thought we'd wing it, see what we think suits her."

John doesn't like the woman's reaction. "Oh Harry," he says, "stop teasing. This is little Harriet junior."

He bites back his amusement at the look on Harry's face. She's always hated the name Harriet.

***

"Well, look, at least I did one thing for you," Harry points out as John struggles to feed the fussy baby. "You're not thinking about Sherlock if she's crying at you."

"Well, no," John agrees. Then, he says seriously, "We have to call her something, Harry, if not Harriet."

"We don't _have_ to."

John shakes his head at Harry. "You've taken less time than this to name a stray animal."

"Yeah, but they don't keep you as busy," Harry points out.

***

John feels like some sort of criminal huddling a baby he assumes to be about two to three months old against his chest as he heads into Scotland Yard and his sister nervously follows behind.

Sally gives him a strange look, but leads him to Lestrade's new office when he offers no explanation.

***

John doesn't even know what to say when Harry says they'd like to try and adopt the baby if the mother can't be found. He gives her a look of disbelief and hands the little girl over to her for a moment. The baby starts to cry.

"Hush, love," Harry tells her. "Hush." She starts to sing quietly to it. She can't sing at all. She's embarrassing herself, embarrassing John. 

John takes a walk.

John figures Harry will give up on the idea eventually. He hopes she will, anyway. They clearly don't know what they're doing.

***

Harry is drunk at home as John sets Love, as Harry calls her and he's ironically dubbed her, up in the pram, all bundled up.

"I knew she couldn't hack it," John says snidely to Love, who looks at him with her large, dark eyes. She's lovely.

"Of course, it's only been three days," he admits. He grabs a few groceries and pushes the baby along.

He's nearly back to Harry's when the bag breaks. And, honestly, the damage isn't bad, but the sound startles Love, who starts to cry, and John just stares at the dumped groceries, the broken bag flapping a bit in the wind as he holds it dumbly.

***

John takes Love up first, then returns downstairs for the pram filled with slightly damp groceries. 

Harry sings to Love off-key again, and it digs at John.

John's phone rings. He scrubs a tired hand over his face, then pulls out his phone. No one calls him anymore. 

It's Lestrade. No leads. 

"If I were you, I'd go beyond the police."

"What?" Something catches in John's throat as he remembers the way Sherlock used to qualify.

"We don't have the one Holmes, but the other's still at it. Give him a try."

" _Greg_ ," John says warningly.

"We're still working on it, but I think we've done about all we can do for now. If you want extra help, help that'll be faster, try Mycroft Holmes." Lestrade hangs up just as John is about to loudly protest.

***

John hasn't gotten a lot of sleep, having had to help with Love, who was fussing all night and probably really missing the mother who apparently wasn't missing her, and his sister's alcohol problem, so he takes the suggestion.

"Harry, I'm taking Love to see Mycroft Holmes. You should come with so he can have all the details you can remember."

"I'm...a bit...."

"Yes, I know," John says. "And I'm tired, and I'm still mad at him. But we should give it a shot, Lestrade says."

"He's a nice man," Harry comments. "He's a very nice man."

"Come," John says, helping her to her feet. He lifts Love out of her pile of pillows and rewraps the towels around her, holding her as he makes a call. 

"Dr Watson." There's utter surprise on the other end of the line. "To what do I owe the—"

"This isn't a pleasure for either of us. I need your help with something out of the police's grasp. I'm bringing my sister, and I need a car." 

Mycroft processes all of this. "Yes, I can send a car. To your sister's?"

"Quick as you like." Love coos a bit after he says this.

"That's an infant," Mycroft comments.

John blinks. "Er. Yes."

"Yes," Mycroft says after a moment. "A few minutes and a car will be there."

John wants so badly to thank him, feels relief that Mycroft is playing along so willingly. But it also pisses him off too because he knows how much Mycroft _really_ cares about people, really cared about Sherlock.

So he just hangs up.

***

"I'm sorry. I won't help you."

Harry raises a brow at Mycroft, then turns the same expression toward John.

"Excuse me?" John says, rocking Love in his arms a bit. "I thought you just said 'won't.' As in _can_ , but _won't_."

"You miss nothing, Doctor."

"You might despise me," John says, rising to his feet, rounding the desk with Love, who is awake and blinking. "You might want me out of here as quickly as possible. But this is a human life we're talking about, and not some criminal mastermind or a sociopathic little brother," he says with a swallow. "This is a baby, what, two or three months old?" He holds her out to Mycroft insistently until, with a swallow, Mycroft takes her and holds her, staring down into her sweet gaze. "You're going to hold her and tell me again that you won't help, you _gilded_ piece of shit."

Mycroft's eyes blaze quietly as he looks back up at John. "I won't help you. It has all at once nothing to do with you and everything to do with you."

John takes a step back so they aren't so close. "What does that mean?"

"One, her mother obviously doesn't want her. She'll have a better life elsewhere."

"What a load of tripe! Harry, are you hearing this?" John says to her, then shakes his head at Mycroft. "Even if parents are complete cock-ups, it's better to be with them and understand where you come from and that they love you in their way. If we can get her to change her mind—"

"You can attempt that yourself, if you ever find her. But I'm not," Mycroft swallows, reaches down to stroke fingertips over the thin hair at the top of Love's head gently. "I'm not sentencing a child to live in a house where they aren't wanted. I refuse to do it. Sherlock might have helped you; I guess we'll never know. But I won't do it." Briefly, he spares Love a deeply concerned look, shifting slightly, looking more protective.

John wonders if he may have underestimated Mycroft Holmes's capacity for caring.

"What's the other reason?" Harry pipes up.

Mycroft glances up, shoots her a slight smirk. "Only that I think your brother may be forming an attachment." He glances up at a stunned John. "You should really consider it."

John carefully moves back to his seat, rubbing his hands on the denim of his jeans and starting at Mycroft, who is still holding Love. 

Love squirms a little, and John starts to get up to take her back, but Mycroft gestures for John to sit again. He hums to her a bit in the quiet of his office. There are notes on the desk, John notices. Perhaps Mycroft cancelled some sort of a meeting for them to come in with Love. He feels a bit guilty about that, but, then again, it _is_ a baby's future they're talking about. Plus, Mycroft won't even help.

"Now," Mycroft says, taking out a handkerchief and placing it over his shoulder as he turns to rest her on his shoulder, patting her back, "I meant only that I would not help locate the woman who has left this child at Harry's. Blame my many character defects, I suppose. It could be the wrong thing to do, but if it is, I simply can't help do the right thing. I'm sorry."

John slowly nods, accepting this answer.

"I will, however, help out in any way you might need that would fit with my schedule. I don't seem the type," he says ruefully, "but I love children. I played a big part in Sherlock's upbringing, as he let slip at the palace, if you'll recall."

"I do remember that," John admits.

"I was schooled at home when Sherlock was this age," Mycroft says quietly. "So, at the time, a lot of things did happen to fit into my schedule."

John isn't quite sure what one says to that, so he lets the silence hang again.

"I think she likes you," Harry tells Mycroft, who can't help but smile a bit, a relaxed sort of expression John's not very used to seeing on him.

"She's asleep, I believe," Mycroft says. "John," he tries, expression suddenly tense and serious again, "please say you wouldn't mind if I had my people deliver some supplies to you."

John scratches at the back of his neck. "We...might not...."

"I know. But, it would put my mind at ease."

John raises a brow. "Okay."

"Tell me what you've already purchased, and I'll make a list."

John blinks as Harry starts to list the things they bought, which have already turned out to not be enough. It's such a bizarre situation they're in.

"What's her name?" Mycroft asks when she wakes and he hands her over to Harry.

"I suggested Harriet junior, but Harry wasn't having it. She calls her 'love', so I've been calling her that."

Harry reddens a bit.

"That won't do," Mycroft says, so oddly serious that John and Harry both laugh.

Mycroft realizes what they find so amusing and chuckles softly too. "Well, it won't," he insists.

"You're right. Um. Thank you, Mycroft. For everything."

"Just give this a few months," Mycroft says. "Just a few months, and see."

John nods. It doesn't seem as spectacularly stupid as it had at first.

"And you should make sure the burden isn't all falling to him," Mycroft says to Harry.

Harry quickly nods. John's not used to seeing her look so resolved about...anything.

***

Seeing Mycroft Holmes in a jumper and jeans and a pair of socks is bizarre, John decides, as he watches Mycroft lean over Love with a rattle and grin softly at her. It's like a completely different Mycroft, like some sort of good twin the Holmeses had never seen fit to mention.

"You should name her," John says.

Mycroft goes completely still, then turns to look over his shoulder at John. "John, I couldn't."

"You could, though," John says. "Harry and I don't even know where to start. You can do the honors."

Mycroft turns back to look at her, staring down at her. He looks a little frightened of the responsibility, like it's too much for one man to handle.

It sort of is, John agrees.

***

"...Anthea?" 

John is playing with Love, who is lying on a blanket on Mycroft's sofa.

"What about her?" John asks.

"No, I." Mycroft hesitates, peeking his head back into the sitting room, sporting an apron. "She had quite a few names, actually. And she liked me to pick them. We could call Love Anthea," he suggests.

"It's nice," John considers. "What's it mean?"

"Flowery. It's Greek."

"We'll have to see what Harry thinks, but I think I like it. How's lunch coming?"

"Almost finished," Mycroft says with one of those shy smiles he's started offering since they've all been watching Love together.

***

He hadn't expected to start watching some of Mycroft's old films with him while they watched her, hadn't expected to experience Mycroft's cooking or to offer his own, sad approximation to the man. But it's nice, and Mycroft is, soon enough, a rather comforting presence.

"You know, I really enjoy your company," John tells him, and then, in the next moment, they're playing rock-paper-scissors to decide who has to change Anthea. 

Mycroft always wins. Maybe John has some tells he doesn't realize. 

Sometimes, Mycroft goes ahead and changes her anyway, though.

***

Mycroft's face twitches when he gets rice cereal all over his hands while feeding her. John teases him lightly, and soon enough he finds it funny. John tries to feed her more often for Mycroft's sake, though. Mycroft still has no trouble bottle feeding her.

Harry still puts in time with the baby, particularly during the day, though John doesn't work much anymore and Mycroft has let slip that he has colleagues who are pleased that he's stopped working such long hours. 

"Everything has changed, hasn't it?" Harry says, kicking up her feet on Mycroft's coffee table. Mycroft's mouth thins but he doesn't comment on their placement.

"Everything _has_ changed," John agrees.

"You know what might be nice? If John moved in with you, Mycroft," Harry suggests. She toasts toward them with her glass. "And the baby, I mean."

"It would make more sense if you did that instead, if we're talking scheduling," John teases her, once again a bit shocked by how forward Harry can be. 

"Not really. You two get on, don't you think? And I'm great," she shrugs, "auntie material, but maybe I'm not the nurturing type. You, John, you're the nurturing type."

"I'm trying not to be insulted," he jokes.

"She's got a point," Mycroft admits, watching Anthea babble a bit as she sits propped up by a few pillows, determinedly not looking at John.

"I'd drive Mycroft crazy if I lived with him. I know I would," Harry says. "I drive him crazy enough just visiting. He has a nice house. Deserves to keep it that way."

"So we're serious about this, then?" John gets up to stand near Anthea, turning toward Harry and Mycroft, looking at them in turn. "It might not be a bad idea. I avoid my flat when possible. It's cramped, and it doesn't feel like home, even after all these months."

"You're welcome here, you and Anthea," Mycroft says thoughtfully. "Obviously, I have a lot of space I'm not using."

***

Somehow, John's managed to get paint on his nose. Harry has some in her hair. 

"It's looking good," Mycroft comments, resting Anthea on his hip. 

"A nursery," John says in amusement. "Always wanted one someday. Thought I might not manage it."

Mycroft smiles quietly. "I haven't told you until now, but that crib we're using used to belong to Sherlock. Well," Mycroft admits, "I had to rebuild part of it. It's sturdy, though."

"You build too?" John asks in disbelief. "What don't you do?"

Mycroft blushes a little and adjusts Anthea on his hip. "Plenty," he says. "Fashion modeling. Rocket engineering. Veterinary science."

"I bet you could get away with the modeling thing," Harry teases.

John tilts his head slightly, looking at Mycroft, Mycroft in his jumper and socks, holding their...their?...daughter. Possibly not.

"You know how I hate seafood, John?" Harry blurts out. "Well, there's this new place I hear everyone should try. I could watch her, if you guys want to go sometime this week."

Both of them shoot her suspicious looks.

"Just let me know," she says.

John waits until she saunters down the hall to the toilet to run a hand over his face and say, "I'm sorry about that."

"About what?"

"She's trying to get us to go out," John says. "Like...on a date."

"Oh."

"Yeah, she actually likes seafood."

"Are you sorry?"

"Hm?"

"Are you sorry she's trying to do that?"

"Oh." John wipes the back of his hand at his nose for a second. "Um. No, actually."

They say nothing more on the subject for a while. Harry and Mycroft end up checking the place out, but John stays home and watches telly.

***

When John next looks over, Mycroft is staring at Anthea with his mouth slightly open. He must have leaned too close. There's cereal mixed with baby food on a patch of his forehead and in the front curl of his hair that sometimes falls forward a bit.

John wets a flannel and heads over, doing as much damage control as he can.

Mycroft flushes. "You didn't need to—"

"I did, actually," John says, quirking his lip. He pats Mycroft on the shoulder. "It's okay. I think her food's gross too."

Mycroft relaxes.

John leans in and kisses Mycroft on the cheek.

"What was that for?" Mycroft finally manages as he watches John return the the sink with the flannel.

"For being a really great dad," John says. He rinses it, then turns the tap off again. "And...because I wanted to."

"I wonder what I'd get if I did even better," Mycroft says. John turns to look at him, wondering at the sincere flirting coming from Mycroft of all people, only to see Mycroft is feeding Anthea again, focused on her, though, John thinks, slightly focused on John still all the same.

***

"You two should just kiss already," Harry moans at them.

"I'll have you know I got him on the cheek the other day," John says in defense, trying to keep things light.

"And I said I wouldn't mind more."

John gets a good look at Mycroft's expression this time. He's serious, yes. John stands, and Harry starts to laugh.

"Go on, John! Kiss him!" Harry urges, and Mycroft watches John walk toward him. He sits as far back in his chair as he can go, looking up at John, knowing it's a make or break moment.

Harry is cheering and giggling as John leans in, as their mouths meet, and they hear Anthea make a little pleased noise in response to Harry's enthusiasm.

When they break apart after what seems like too long and too little all at once, Mycroft clears his throat and regains his composure. Finally, he says, "What do you say, John? How about we take her other piece of advice and go out to dinner sometime?"

John smiles. "I'd love to. We're already sharing our lives. Might as well."

John glances over to see Harry playing with the baby, helping her sit up. Sometimes, Harry's ideas don't make John feel so lost. He has a hell of a lot to be grateful for, really. He laces his fingers with Mycroft's, liking how their hands fit together. Mycroft isn't the only one who's been smiling more. They all have.

Sometimes, Harry's ideas don't turn out to be so bizarre in the end. 


End file.
